


A Thousand Miles Across the Waves

by orphan_account



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Athelstan has family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, drama follows, fun times, missing scenes from episodes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 12:34:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan was just starting to get used to his new life on the other side of the ocean. But then Ragnar returns from a raid with a new hoard of slaves, including one very familiar face Athelstan remembers from his past... Can he reconcile the old beliefs and the new, his master and his family, England and Scandanavia, or will he be torn apart in the coming struggle?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Miles Across the Waves

**Author's Note:**

> My very first Vikings fic! Not gonna lie, I'm totally obsessed with this show and can't wait for the next episode. I'm eyeball-deep in exams right now, so updates will be few and far between, but hopefully this fic will get finished, eh =]
> 
> (On a side note, this fic will be focusing on the friendship between Athelstan and Ragnar. You can see it as pre-slash if you want to; I personally don't ship them together romantically, but it's cool if you do =] )

When he had first come here, Athelstan had been lost, gazing up at mountains that were so tall they must surely have reached God’s feet, a sky brighter and clearer and colder than any he had seen back at home. The men and women of Ragnar Lothbrok’s land had all seemed strange, their customs, appearance, food… even their language weighed heavy on his tongue, scratching his throat with its unusual harshness. Gyda and Bjorn had squinted at him as if he were some miraculous beast, looking on him with as much frightened curiosity as he on them.

When Ragnar had taken Athelstan for his slave, his thrall, Athelstan had been lost, unsure of how to behave, or even the right words to speak in his master’s nordic tongue. He had prayed every night for salvation, to be taken from this place, this den of heathens, to be reunited with his beloved home. When God did not answer, he had begged to at least be given some sign, some knowledge of God’s purpose, God’s plan. As the days stretched into weeks, he began to wonder if God’s plan had any room for one small monk in the weave of the tapestry. One tiny dot of brown in a sea of brown.

When Lagertha had invited him into her bed, Athelstan had been lost, unable to comprehend what they were asking of him, unsure of the penalties if he refused. Or if he accepted. The people here were so alien to him, so foreign, they thought nothing of violence, passion, sex, destruction. Blood and sweat were as common as water and earth. There was nothing sacred; their gods were as fond of death as them.

But time passed, and with every day spent on this strange shore, Athelstan grew more accustomed to their ways. He grew into a routine, his life now governed by the stride of the sun rather than the song of the bell, rising early and working hard. Where, back home, at Lindisfarne, he had been an educated man, working in the scriptorium on books - Bibles - here he was nothing but an extra pair of hands to help the family around their farm. Digging, cutting, tilling, ploughing, chopping, cooking, cleaning, grooming… Every dull, menial task was now his work. His eyes grew used to the brightness of the sky rather than the musky dimness of candlelight, his hands lost their inky stain and took on the colour of the earth, his muscles, painful and cramped at first, exercised and strengthened as the days went by.

But the greatest change was inside, where no one saw. Because Athelstan’s God had no power here, he saw that, and it frightened him. His prayers received no answer. He was abandoned in a far-off land, for no reason of God’s, but of man’s. You are here because I spared your life. It really was that simple. His hair grew in, and Athelstan made no attempt to stop it, to maintain his mark of monkhood. For what was the point? He saw temptation at every turn, and a wrong step would mean damnation. But was this some test of the Lord’s? And if so, what possible purpose could it serve?

He tried to forgive Ragnar. To do what a good Christian would. Every day he wondered at the difference between the gentleness his captors showed when at home and the brutality with which they had attacked Lindisfarne. Two completely different peoples, seemingly irreconcilable. And yet, the monster who killed so many peaceful monks, young and old, drowning them in their own blood, stealing sacred crucifixes and destroying holy Bibles, was the same man who raised his children with a love and tenderness that should have suited Ragnar as well as an ill-fitting gown, and yet he wore it with a pride and confidence that defied everything Athelstan thought he knew about the world.

And yet he could not forgive him his sins. Any other task asked of him, Athelstan would willingly perform, no matter how base. But not that.

* * *

 

‘I want you to look after my children while I am away.’

Ragnar’s statement caught Athelstan completely by surprise, and he looked up suddenly, a question in his eyes, wondering if perhaps he had misheard, or translated the other man’s words wrongly in his head.

Ragnar chuckled. ‘You heard me right, priest. Lagertha and I will be sailing west in the next few days, and I will leave Bjorn and Gyda in your care while we are gone.’

‘Are… ’ He tried to phrase it correctly, searching for the right word to express his misgivings. Finally, he settled on something he knew Ragnar would understand. ‘I cannot fight. I would not be able to protect your children.’

‘We sail with the lord’s permission; there should be no trouble.’

‘And if there is?'

‘Bjorn can handle it. He’s a man now.'

Athelstan swallowed. ‘Ragnar Lothbrok… Why do you trust me with something so precious?’

‘You have trusted me with your own life every day since I first spared it,’ Ragnar pointed out, and Athelstan pushed down the smile that came unbidden to his lips; this was more important.

‘But that was my own life, and I had little choice. This is… These are your children.’ He cast about desperately - there had to be some way to make Ragnar understand. ‘I am but a monk who barely speaks your language, alone in a land I know nothing of with people who killed my brothers! Please, do not leave them with me. I cannot care for them, I cannot protect them, you saw me at Lindisfarne, I had no hope against even one of your warriors. How can you expect me to be able-’

Ragnar cut him off with a gesture, and Athelstan fell silent, clamping his mouth shut on all the unspoken words that threatened to bubble out of his throat. Now they were here, it seemed almost impossible to cast them away again.

‘Please. Do not do this.’ His voice was low, quiet, but he knew Ragnar heard him.

‘I have no choice, Athelstan,’ the other man said, wearily. ‘But I do trust you, no matter what you say. The very fact that you are so unwilling to be left to care for my children shows how deeply you do care.’ He smiled, placing his hand on Athelstan’s shoulder. ‘I have faith in you, Athelstan of England. Argue all you like, but you cannot change the way the wind blows.’

And to that, Athelstan had no answer but to dip his head and accept.


End file.
